He Sent Fire
by Isshinkurosakis
Summary: It's comforting, to know that you can be useful. Do something right. Even if your patient doesn't appreciate anything you do. And most of that confidence is instilled by a scary demon that you dream about regularly now. Eventual Vergil/OC. Slight AU.
1. Prologue: Blue Flames

_"From on high he sent fire,  
__sent it down into my bones.  
__He spread a net for my feet  
__and turned me back.  
__He made me desolate,  
__faint all the day long."_

_-Lamentations 1:14_

* * *

_Nelo Angelo was burning._

_The blue flames lapped at his skin with the intensity of the sun's writing flares. He howled in pain. Vanished into oblivion._

_He had failed his master, and now would go to a fate worse than death._

_The pain was tortuous, but the blue flames refused to leave him, guiding the unwilling demon onward to his fate. He stopped his shouts. They did no good. The more he did, the more intense the pain grew._

_Then, out of the darkness, something blocked the flames' path. They continued, but dissipated into nothing on contact. The something wrapped Nelo Angelo in its embrace. Raw Power. So dark a black it shone a dark light. Comforting, in a way. Nelo Angelo slipped from his demonic form, unable to sustain it. Translucent skin showed dark, pulsating veins. Red, bloodshot eyes. He may not be carried by the flames anymore, but he was still on Death's doorstep._

"My son, you have done much in your short time, but there is still much more for you to do."

_The voice came from the Power around him. He gave a small gasp of surprise, and choked from the effort. He was rarely surprised. But this voice... this Power..._

"Father?"_ He rasped._

"Naturally."

_He sputtered. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to exist. _"What..."

"Like I said, my son, there is still much more left for you to do."

_The son's red eyes closed, though his breathing still rattled on. He was so weary. _"But father, you're..."

"Dead? I'm disappointed in you, Vergil, to think that such a petty thing as death could stop me from protecting my son."

_Said Sparda._

_Vergil smirked. _"There is nothing that can be done for me. You are wasting your time."

"Quite the contrary, Vergil. I can ensure that you live, and recover. But it will be painful, and difficult, and it will require some careful meddling. You will have much to learn. But I am confident that you will triumph. For now, though, rest. You will need to recover some of your strength, to survive re-entering the mortal world."

_Vergil wanted to speak more to the Dark Knight. Inquire into the trials he would face. But Sparda's words were laced with compulsion, and the already battle-weakened son fell into a healing rest, protected by his father's aura._

.:fin:.

I have had this in the making, with this prologue finished, for some time now, but I've been unable to come up with a title, and so couldn't post it.

Finally, exasperated about it, I decided to Hemingway it.

I opened my bible and put down my finger. I landed on the verse that you see above.

It was too unbelievably perfect.

I don't care about reviews or anything. This story is written almost purely for myself. My OC muse for this story is very prominent, and I want some practice working in a first-person style again, which you will see in following chapters, if you stick around.

I just... couldn't not post it tonight. It was too perfect. This is too perfect.


	2. Chapter 1: Enter Mary and the Ingrate

_Like a bear lying in wait,  
__like a lion in hiding,  
__he dragged me from the path and mangled me  
__and left me without help.  
_

_-Lamentations 3:10-3:11  
_

* * *

Funny. Usually when I dream about men, they're in some state of undress, or we're on some sort of adventure. Usually they're very romantic in the former situation, funny or amiable (at the least) in the latter. But, most importantly, usually I know who they are.

I'm a nerd. I usually dream of characters like Sesshomaru, Lord of the Western Lands, or Bakura of Yu-Gi-Oh infamy in the steamy experiences, comic book characters like Deadpool, Taskmaster, and Thor in the latter (though Thor often appears in both at the same time, because even though blondies aren't usually my thing in a fangirl-object, he is _hot_. Anyone with eyes in their stupid heads should be able to see that). And I have never simply dreamed up a man, though if I did, he would probably look similar to this one. Maybe. A little.

He did, after all, have white hair.

He was been dressed in a long purple coat, with fancy red and black hemming that looked almost like lace (probably was but I'm uncultured swine so what do I know?), with matching purple pants. His shirt was long and purple, too, the front done up in the same kind of fancy red-black lace as on his coat. He wore dapper white gloves and black leather dress shoes. There was a very demonic looking gray collar-necklace-thing on his chest. A red gem gleamed at the base of his neck. His hair was slicked. His eyes were a sharp blue that seemed to look through you, _into_ you, somewhere.

For God's sake, he had a freakin' _monocle_ over his left eye.

Overall, extremely dapper. Overly extremely dapper. I say. Chip chip, cheerio.

But I digress.

There was the dream-man, and there I was, wearing what I had worn to bed: an soft gray USC t-shirt that was a good deal too big, my old pink pajama pants with the duckies on them, and my really soft socks that have lotion in them so that your feet get softer or something or whatever. They were warm, and it was uncharacteristically nippy for the summertime when I went to bed, and so I'd dressed comfy. I was feeling oddly conscious for a dream, and so I was fidgeting with the hem of my shirt, because I felt under-dressed, which who wouldn't, with monocle-man staring at them across the white-blah-nothing-with-no-floor-but-somehow-we-were-still-standing place. Staring with a small smirk that one gets from being a badass and knowing that they are, indeed, a badass, and can prove it if you doubt them, too.

"_Ms. Anzeray,"_ He greeted, tipping his head like a proper gentleman.

Anzeray is a weird last name, and I usually hate it, but it sounded very pretty coming from him, his deep voice making it sound like it was from an ancient faerie song. "Just Mary, please," I squeaked, before he had the chance to address me by my first name. Even if he made my surname sound pretty, nothing could make my first name sound so.

"_Very well, Mary,"_ he rumbled. Good Lord, I felt like a complete troll. _"I have come to you to ask a favor."_

This struck me as a bit odd. I'd never been asked to do a favor for a figment of my imagination before. Not even the dream-men in adventure dreams asked for my help; I was just kind of there, doing stuff (because if I was already there I might as well be useful, right?). "Why?" I questioned. "I'm no good at anything. If you wanted a favor, you should have gone to my _sister_, goddess of _everything_," I said, with great sarcasm and disdain, "Mr..."

"_Sparda."_

Chills ran up my spine. I may be good for just about nothing, but I'm not stupid. I knew the legends. The Legendary Dark Knight Sparda, who sealed away hell and saved the human world by battling hell's forces into submission and embracing humanity, all on his own. A demon who felt love. A demon who sired twin children, and eventually passed away, sealed off from his great power.

And I began to think, _'Maybe I'm not dreaming.'_

"Oh," was all I could say, though.

He chuckled. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Now that I knew who he was, I was feeling far more nervous than before.

"_Mary, I have chosen you over your sister for various reasons, which I will hope that you shall see in time."_

"But, why are you here? Talking to me? Aren't you...uh..."

"_Dead?"_

"Yeah, that."

Sparda sighed, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. _"I am disappointed yet again by the little faith others have in my strength, simply because I am dead. I have power beyond imagining, even though I no longer live."_

I blinked. "I-I'm sure."

He looked back to me. I almost felt as though I had been stabbed by his blue eyes. _"However, I did not come here to explain myself. I came to ask you to help my eldest son."_

I was struck dumb by this. "And you chose me over my sister for this? Me over the goddess of everything?"

"_You have certain qualities and resources that she does not, Mary. You are the better choice."_

I didn't know what those qualities could be, seeing as how I had spent most of my life trying to live up to my younger sister's reputation, and always falling short, though I could guess at the resources he was referring to. "You want me to take him into my home while he recovers."

"_Yes."_ Sparda grinned. It was unsettling, but at the same time not unkind. _"He will heal, and he will learn, as he has much left to. And you will grow and learn as well, I suspect."_

"He will learn what? I can't learn anything, let alone teach your son stuff." I objected.

Sparda gave me an annoyed glare. I felt my blood run cold. It wasn't just the hair on the back of my neck standing up now: all of it was. _"I have been patient, Mary, but your lack of faith in your own abilities, and therefore in my decision, is wearing my patience thin. He will learn, because I say he will learn, and you will stop with your insistence of your own uselessness because to continue is to insult me further, and that would not be wise."_

I gulped and nodded. Okay. Scary dead legendary demon was threatening me in my dream. I shouldn't have been afraid of a dream, but I was petrified because I was still unsure about the whole just-a-dream thing.

"_I see you have chosen a wise path. Will you, then, help my son?"_

I am a failure by my family's standards. I can't learn what they want to teach me, and therefore I am of little use to them. It was the reason why when my father helped me get away, they didn't take up their arms and search for me, even though I would be very easy to trace (Daddy dearest does still deposit my "allowance" into my Swiss bank account, and I sometimes have to make withdrawals to help pay the bills). But it was strangely touching to realize that a scary demon in a dream had enough faith in me to threaten my life over doubting him, and entrust me with something that was most likely very important to him. A scary demon in a dream had more faith in me than my family did. There was something inherently wrong with this. I'm sure a psychiatrist could have told me that this was dreamed up because Mommy didn't love me enough and this was how I was filling that hole in my heart, by imagining that the great demon Sparda was giving me a great responsibility. Hell, that's probably all this really was!

But I liked this feeling welling up in me, that maybe I could be useful for something. That I could maybe do something right.

"Yes, I will."

.::.

Usually, waking up in the morning is a difficult process for me, but this morning, I just sorta popped right up. I still felt giddy from feeling possibly useful, even though everything that had just happened was, obviously, just a dream, right? Yeah, had to be. Sparda, asking a favor from _me_? Must be. Was I going a little crazy? Possibly. But I'd call up the local loony bin and ask about vacancies later. It was nine o'clock, and Harley would be wanting her breakfast.

I grabbed my glasses from my bedside dresser and shoved them on my face, and stumbled through my living room and into the kitchen, where I pulled a can of cat food from the cupboard under the island. I have a weird kitchen: an island with the stove and short end pieces for stuff, with overhanging cupboards and cupboards underneath. Hooks were on the bottom of the top cupboards, for all of my pots and pans. Two L-shaped counters line the wall, separated by the door to the guest bedroom and bath. This used to be a plantation foreman's house, but someone without much architectural sense had since renovated it and now there was a second bedroom that I didn't really use. I didn't need a big house. My end was cozy.

I went to step over to the left L counter (it has more space – the right L is mostly filled by oven and dishwasher and sink), and very nearly kicked poor Harley baby. Luckily, I saw the fluffy calico mass at the last second and did a surprisingly agile twirl around her. I frowned at her, but the big cat just sat down, wrapped her luxurious tail around big, snowshoe paws, and glared at me with narrowed yellow eyes. I usually fed her at 8:30, and I knew I was in trouble. She wasn't weaving around my legs like normal.

To clarify, Harley isn't my cat. I'm her human. A few days after I moved in, she kinda just walked up and decided this was her house and she owned me and hasn't left since. Which is fine. I like her company, and I'm sure she appreciates the care, seeing as how she's rather old. Several of her teeth are missing (including her upper left canine), and half of her left ear is gone. Tough old cat who decided to adopt a human as a part of her retirement plan.

I dished out her food into a little ceramic Harley Davidson dish, and put it on the floor, in the corner of the L, where Miss Harley would be out of the way while I made my breakfast. Hash browns, bacon, and eggs today, I was thinking. Nummy. And easy to whip up.

Three fried eggs, five strips of bacon, and a healthy serving of hash browns on my plate later, I was sitting at the table with a large glass of Lactaid milk (what? I'm lactose intolerant!), about to dig in. Harley jumped on the table and eyed my food, so I had to eat fast. I sacrificed a strip of bacon for the good of the mission (Harley has a wicked stare, she does). Then I took a cold water five minute wake-up shower and avoided my reflection in the mirror as I walked out. I dressed in a set of jersey running shorts and a black tank top under a midriff lavender t-shirt thing that probably clashed horribly with my copper colored hair but I didn't care. I blow-dried said hair (I don't do wet hair), the tight, thick waves falling down my back to the tops of my hips, then put it in a ponytail, side bangs tucked behind my left ear. I slipped into my old white Vans, tapping the tips of my toes on the floor to make sure they were on just right. I put my violet, cat-eyed-framed glasses (with paisley patterning on the sides) back on over brown eyes. There. Voila. Done. Ready for my jog. And it was only ten.

I grabbed my house key and stepped outside, locking the door before slipping the key into my sports bra. I shouldn't be afraid of people getting into my house – the nearest neighbor was about ten miles out – but city paranoia dies hard and I have stuff in that house. I picked up a steady jog, making my way between the house and the carport onto a well-worn trail around my property.

I was only just making my way through the first stretch, into the little mini-forest-swamp area near the river, when I saw him. He was slumped against a tree trunk, dressed almost exactly like Sparda. I almost thought he was Sparda. I froze, and then like a moron moved closer to inspect the stranger. No, not Sparda. His skin was too pale. It looked almost like wax paper. You could see his veins through it, pulsing softly, if you watched hard enough. The skin around his eyes looked inflamed, and his lips were a sort of a pale blue-purple color. Sick. He just overall looked sick.

I moved my hand down to pick up a stick to poke him with, to see if he was dead (okay, I lie – I knew he wasn't dead. I just said that shpeel about being able to see his veins move with blood flow and everything. I just wanted to poke him with a stick), and my hand met with something that felt like parchment. I looked down. Okay, it was parchment. With something written on it in very fancy writing. I picked it up, and took a look.

**_You know what you must do, Mary._**

Oh. Hey. This was less of a dream than I thought then I guess.

I folded up the parchment and stuck it into my sports bra with my key. I pondered what to do next.

I decided to go with the stick anyway.

I gave him two good jabs in the chest. Nothing happened. He was out cold. I was wondering if maybe my brand of help had arrived too late. It might be kinder to him if it did. I gave him two harder jabs in the chest. Still nothing. Now a little frustrated (and poke-happy), I just repeatedly poked him, the stabs occasionally hitting him on the shoulder or stomach. Still nothing. I threw the stick on the ground melodramatically and made a noise somewhere between a scream of frustration and a dying cow. He was taller than me, and probably heavier than me, and I didn't know if I could drag him back to the house. And that probably wouldn't help my poor patient either. I wanted him awake to help drag himself. But no. He was just going to stay slumped their against the tree like a lump. Douche.

Whatever. Fuck it. I was going to continue my jog and if he didn't wake up when I stick-attacked him when I came back then he was probably dead and I'd have to call out the coroners to take his body away. Wonderful. The townsfolk already love to gossip about me. Fuck my life.

I stood, took one last look at the figure slumped against the tree, and continued on my track.

.::.

I arrived back about an hour later. That was good time, for me, at a leisurely jog; my property has about a five and a half mile border. And sicky was still slumped against the tree. I finally came to a stop, pushing my bangs up to get some more air onto my forehead (as though it would help) and tried to think about what to do with him. Also catching my breath. I wasn't breathing hard, but I was still panting. And the sucky thing about going out for my jog this late in the morning was that I hadn't beat the humidity at all, and in May it's killer. I was sweaty and sticky and probably smelly. And still had to drag a guy to the house.

I crouched and examined him some more. He still looked out cold. I took a few awkward frog hops closer. No reaction. Okay. I reached for my stick, and jumped six feet out of my skin when he spoke to me.

"That will not be necessary. I have enough bruises from your previous assault."

I put a hand over my poor, racing heart, still feeling a bit panicked. His voice was low and cold and uninviting. Lovely. But at least he was awake. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?" I managed to gasp.

His voice was more mumbled this time. "I find it difficult to." He paused for a while, then added. "It is painful. I find I also cannot move, and I am therefore unable to vacate your property."

I shrugged. "Ah, that's fine. Apparently your father wants me to nurse you back to health anyway."

His eyes opened halfway. Pale red, bloodshot. They made him look even worse. "I find this difficult to believe." His voice was almost a whisper. I took two more frog hops closer. I was only about a foot from him now, and I decided to just flop back on my butt.

"Sparda. You're his oldest son, right? He didn't mention your name. What would that be?"

His eyes narrowed. I could tell that this wasn't because he was tired and in pain; he was definitely glaring at me. "That is none of your concern, human."

I rolled my eyes. Peachy personality this one had. Oh, someone catch me, I fear I may swoon! "Whatever. I've been charged with your care." I pulled the parchment out of my sports bra and unfolded it. It was a bit damp now, but the ink hadn't run. I assumed it was magic ink. I wouldn't put it past Sparda. He managed to leave me a letter despite being dead, right? Anyway.

He looked at the letter critically, then his eyelids covered those bloodshot eyes wearily. "That is my father's handwriting." I grinned smugly, and folded it back up and stuffed it back in my bra.

"Well, since that's settled… can you walk, at least?"

He glared at me again, this time with just his right eye. The eye closest to me. "I can hardly speak. It pains me to open my eyes to look at you."

I frowned. "Well, it's either you try to help get yourself to the house, or I drag you there. How tall are you? How much do you weigh?"

Long pause. "Six feet and one inch. One-hundred and seventy-five pounds."

I nodded sagely. As though I had known this beforehand. Which I kinda did maybe sorta. Shut up. I knew he was taller and weighed more than me, at least. "Well, I'm five-foot-six and I weigh one-nineteen, so that's gonna be a lot of stop and go if I have to drag you."

More long pausing. He closed his glaring eye and offered me a weary sigh which I chose to take as a yes. Without asking permission, I took his right arm and draped it over my shoulders. I heard him make a small moan of pain, but he covered it up well. I tried my best to lift him up slowly. His feet slipped twice while he was trying to get his legs underneath himself, but I have some strength in me and even though he threatened to drag us both down again I managed not to let that happen. Once we were finally standing up, he hissed loudly, and muttered, "Let us do this quickly. This is excruciatingly painful. And your odor is offensive."

Ingrate.

I should have dropped him.

But I didn't.

Instead, I helped him shuffle across my trail to the house. I managed to pull out my key and get the house unlocked quickly. I didn't bother closing the door; I rushed my patient over to my Lay-Z-Boy and set him in it. I could see that he was trying his best to be a tough guy and not pant, but there was a definite sheen of sweat on his pale skin. If I thought he looked dead out there, well, he certainly looked like he was about to die now.

"Hold on a moment, don't pass out yet," I commanded. I rushed to the couch, which was actually a futon because I was feeling particularly artsy when I bought it and also maybe my lack of ownership of a real bed at that point factored in a little, and flattened it out into a bed. Then I rushed to my linen cabinet and grabbed a set of white sheets, which I quickly threw on. I snatched my spare comforter and tossed that on as well. Then I returned my attention to my patient. He was still conscious. I could tell because he was looking at me condescendingly from beneath white eyelashes. I didn't pay that any mind. Instead, I pulled off the dress shoes he was wearing, and pulled him onto the edge of the chair so I could remove his jacket and dress vest so he was just wearing the fancy white blouse, the purple pants, and black socks. He didn't seem happy about any of this, probably the fact that I was tossing his clothes on the floor wasn't helping, but he couldn't possibly get good bed rest with all of this crap on. I reached over and flipped the covers back, then realized I had forgotten pillows, so I leaned him back and just took the one from the left side of my bed that I never slept on anyway. Then I quickly transferred him from the chair to the futon-bed, helping him to lie back slowly, then swung his legs up for him. I wasn't expecting a thank you, which was good, because he was out cold before I tossed the blankets over him.

Douche.

Whatever.

I checked his temperature with the back of my right hand. Burning up. I thought that'd be the case. I'd force some medicine into him when he woke up. But until that time came, I decided to just take a long, leisurely shower.

What with Mr. Sunshine over there, I was probably going to need it.

.:fin:.

Chapter one complete.

I'm trying a new method of publishing with this sorta. I don't work very quickly to begin with, but since this chapter was done rather quickly, and I had a prologue written up already, I decided that this will be done on a one-chapter-reserve basis, so that if I get stuck in a, like, 6-month writer's block, I have something to give you all while I work through it.

Also the DMC fandom must be hard-up for fanfiction of any sort. The prologue for this got 5 reviews, 157 hits, and 6 alerts in the, what, month and a half it's been up? And it's only 654 words, including author's note. In comparison, my Naruto fanfic has 10 reviews, 455 hits, 10 favs, 11 alerts, 3 chapters, and is 11,780 words at this point, plus it's been up since January. Not complaining, I just find it amusing that such a short little prologue for a story that I'm just writing for the fun of writing is getting so much attention.

Anyway, Mary is one of my favorite characters ever and just about everything she says makes me love her that much more. Nuff said.

Shoutouts to Kuon, Kyroo Echoes, Snookens5, GaarasMyBoyzz, and Loves Devil for the reviews! I'm very glad that you enjoyed the prologue.


	3. Chapter 2: Sucks to Your Assmar

_He has walled me in so I cannot escape;  
__he has weighed me down with chains.  
__Even when I call out or cry for help,  
__he shuts out my prayer.  
__He has barred my way with blocks of stone;  
__he has made my paths crooked._

_-Lamentations 3:7-3:9_

* * *

He didn't wake up again until later that evening. By then, I'd already been out of the shower for a few hours, had lunch, finished a few drafts of my latest project and sent them off to the client for feedback (I'm a graphic design artist, degree and all, who does website design and art commissions on the side. Hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to stay afloat. My allowance is in a rainy day account in Switzerland and I don't want to use it unless I really need it), and had started watching the TV. I'd debated for a while whether or not I should, but in the end, there really was no option. New episode of Bones every Monday night, and while I may have cable (I love television, it's a weakness) I do not have Tivo. I'd compromised by keeping the volume low.

I didn't hear him. He didn't say anything. I just happened to look in his direction during a commercial, about midway through the show, and had jumped out of my skin because he was just silently glaring at me. I paused the show and petted Harley, who had been sleeping on my lap until I had startled, in an attempt to soothe her. "Feeling better?" I asked politely.

"No."

I shrugged. "Thought not. Whatever else may be going on with you, I'm not sure. But I do know that you have a high fever, and you're going to need a fever reducer. Lucky you, I have some left over from the last time I had the flu." Seasonal issue. I get the flu every year. Even if I get vaccinated. Sometimes I get it twice.

He narrowed his eyes. "I require no such thing, human."

"Mary."

"Excuse me?" His voice was like the crack of a bullwhip. Dangerous. But he couldn't move so sucks to his ass-mar.

"My name is Mary."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, as though I were testing his infinite patience. Sarcasm. From what I'd gathered at this point, if his patience were a lake it would be an inch deep. I decided to take his sigh as a sign that he had given up, even though it obviously wasn't. He couldn't move, what was he going to do? Stop me? I set Harley gently on the ground, and she promptly hopped on his futon, near his knees. I stood to go get the fever reducer, though before I could, Sunny McSunrays snapped, "I do not desire this beast anywhere near me."

"That beast is named Harley and she's old and can do whatever she damn well pleases. Also, it's entirely possible she could attack you if you try to tell her otherwise so I highly suggest not trying that." I have many scars on my arms from taking an abnormally long amount of time to learn this.

What's-his-face continued to stare daggers at my cat. "I do not wish to repeat myself."

"Well, good. Then don't."

And with this, I took my leave. Strode through my room and into my bathroom, pulled on the right bottom corner of the mirror. It swung open to reveal an array of… things. Prescriptions from things past, over-the-counter drugs, a bag of condoms that my best friend mailed to me as a joke for my last birthday (neither of us have had boyfriends in quite some time, but since she got her first one and I gave her a box of condoms as a birthday gift, it's been a running gag between us both). But where was… aha! I snatched up the bottle of Acetaminophen and undid the cap, dumped two into my hand, and then put the cap back on and stuck it back, swung the mirror shut, and went back out.

Sunshine was still glaring at the cat. I pretended I wasn't amused. "So, would you like a glass of water with these?" I asked. Now he was just glaring at me. Far less amusing.

"I told you that I do not require such remedies."

I took a stance, with my left hip cocked and my left hand resting on it. "Okay. You have three choices. Either you take these like a big boy, I can stick these in hot dogs for you and you can take these like a dog, or I can shove these in your mouth, hold your jaw shut, and hold your nose until you swallow them."

His eyes narrowed. "I will not stand for this sort of treatment."

"What're you gonna do? Last I checked, it pained you to move." I crossed my arms, cocked my eyebrow at him in the best Spock expression I could muster. "So sucks to your ass-mar."

I could see the gears clicking and whirring behind the bleached red eyes. The silence seemed to drag on for hours, but I held my ground. Finally, he sighed. It was a long-suffering sort of sound. He very slowly moved his right arm up, over the blankets, palm facing up. "I will take them." I smiled smugly and set the two pills in his hand, gently. His gaze shifted to them, then back to me. It was especially sharp, and I figured it meant something. "I do this _only_ because you showed the mental capacity to have at least read _Lord of the Flies_." And with this, he almost tossed the pills into his mouth and swallowed them. I nodded, and returned to my chair, picked up the remote, and continued my show.

When I looked back over a few minutes later, he was asleep again.

.::.

The only other time he woke up that day was when I shook him awake to ask him if he wanted dinner. He only told me that he did not require sustenance the way that humans do. I shrugged and made myself a bunch of spaghetti and meatballs and figured it was his loss, because I make the best spaghetti you've ever tasted (granted, the meatballs and sauce are store-bought, but I still make some mean sketti). I ate that and looked at things on the internet and then I conked out at around midnight which is relatively early for me. It was almost a shame, really. I went to bed without pulling out my kindle and trying to catch up on some more of Rurouni Kenshin. Oh, well. If I still hadn't heard back from my current clients in the morning, I would play some catch-up then.

I wasn't expecting to see Sparda in my dream again. I _really_ wasn't expecting to see Sparda in my dream again, lemme tell you what.

If I was, I would have put on pajama pants.

So now there I was in the blah-white-nothing, trying desperately to pull my Jack Skellington shirt down as far as it would go. It was a long shirt, I shouldn't have been so worried, but considering how underdressed I felt the last time, I think maybe you can understand my distress. Also I was wearing some hideous underwear because when I'm not going out anywhere I see no need to wear the nicer ones and oh yeah did I mention _I was basically half-naked in front of a scary demon?_

At least he didn't seem to care. Hell, I don't think he even noticed. His gaze did not so much as _flicker_ away from my face. Really good self-control, much?

But I'm babbling.

But _can you blame me?_

Anyways.

_"How does my son fare?"_ Was the first thing he very casually asked. Almost as if he had asked how the weather was. Oh hey how is my kid that is basically almost dead?

"I gave him some fever reducers. He didn't want to take them, so I threatened him." This made Sparda give an amused sort of snort. "Other than that, I have no idea what's going on with him or how to treat it. I'm no doctor…"

Sparda smirked. Or was it a smile? There was something there, like he was trying to be reassuring. Maybe. It was a vaguely reassuring smirk, then, I suppose. _"His wounds are not ones that can be treated by a doctor."_

I tried not to say "oh".

"Oh."

Damnit.

Sparda continued as though I hadn't said anything. _"His soul has been corroded, due to enslavement to dark forces for an extended period of time. It will take time for him to recover."_ He looked away, the action almost, dare I say it, bashful. _"I suppose that this is information he has not deigned to tell you?"_

Deigned. A perfect adjective. I should use it more in description of Sunnyboy.

I snorted. "He hasn't even deigned to tell me his name."

Sparda's gaze returned to me, now a little shocked. _"Has he been such an ungrateful patient? I would think he would be more appreciative, considering the fate he was initially destined."_

"I was so kind as to help him get into my house and he told me that my odor was offensive. Ungrateful is too light a word, methinks."

Sparda pinched the bridge of his nose. _"He should know better. He and Dante both had extensive tutoring in etiquette. Though I suppose his base nature does tend to make him believe he is above such formalities…"_

I waited. That didn't seem like the sort of sentence trailing off that asked for a response.

I was right.

Sparda's hand lowered, and his eyes once again were riveted to mine. _"Vergil. His name is Vergil."_

I couldn't help it. I laughed. "Dante and Vergil!? Oh, God, please tell me his middle name is Aeneid! And the younger one's is Alighieri!"

Sparda chuckled, raised an eyebrow. _"You are well-read?"_

I was still laughing when I answered, but I meant to sound annoyed. "Why is everyone so surprised by it? I like a lot of the classics…"

_"Not many do, in this modern day and age."_

I rolled my eyes. "Tell me about it! But that doesn't answer my questions."

Sparda seemed reluctant, shifted from one foot to the other, before giving a slow nod.

I laughed so hard that I did a slow motion collapse, slowly curled up into the fetal position on the ground. Oh, GOD. I could rub this IN. SO. HARD.

Sparda watched me with one noble eyebrow lifted. _"I do not see the hilarity in this."_

"They have themed names! Themed for each other plus the middle names correspond to their first names! It's not actually that funny but I can't stop laughing!" I took several deep breaths, managed to stop the laughter, sat back up. "You should really talk to me during the day, when I'm, y'know, awake. Mentally."

An amused smirk played itself along the corners of his mouth. _"If it was in my power, I would. But now, I believe you should awake. Vergil calls."_

.::.

I awoke with a start, then groaned loudly. Sparda kicked me out of sleeping! What a dick, I love sleeping! I was about to roll over and go right back to sleep, when I heard him calling for me. Vergil. I almost rolled over and went back to sleep anyway. After all, he was calling for "human", not me. But his voice was raspy, and it sounded like it really hurt him to raise his voice to this volume (which wasn't even that loud), so I cursed myself for being so nice and got up, walked to my door, stepped to the side as I threw it open, and walked out. "What do you want?"

He was glaring from the moment I stepped out, but his eyes widened a bit when I stopped, and I saw them trace me up and down. Far less self-control or sense of politeness than Daddy. "Is this how you normally sleep?"

I cocked my left hip, put my hand on it. "In the summer, yeah."

"It is highly indecent."

I threw my hands into the air. He's got a corroded soul or whatever it was Sparda said, and he's finding the time to tell me that I look like a slut in proper, formal English. What was his game? Was this what he called me for? "You got me, I'm secretly a wanton mistress of the night!" I crossed my arms, and glared with what I thought was an excellent impression of him. "What the fuck do you want?"

His eyes narrowed to their normal glaring width again. "Vulgarity is not a trait befitting of a woman."

"WHAT. THE FUCK. DO. YOU. WANT. ASSHAT."

He scoffed, looked away from me. "I find that I was incorrect earlier. I require sustenance."

I gaped at him. Then leaned to look at the clock below the wall-mounted television. An ugly red 3:04 AM glared at me. "You woke me up at three in the morning to make you food?"

His attention returned to me, and his expression obviously read "well, duh." Like I was a slave who would do whatever he asked whenever he asked it. It's not like I'm cruelly starving him. I woke this douche up earlier to ask him if he wanted food and he said no. I already made dinner. Just because he was hungry now did not mean that I should drop everything and make him a sandwich. I don't know what century he was living in, but there was a feminist movement and my place is not in the kitchen, thank you.

"No."

He actually sat up a bit. "Pardon?"

I smiled at him, as pleasantly as I could. It probably looked very sardonic. "No."

His chin tucked down, closer to his collarbones. "You would be wise to rethink that statement, woman."

I could feel my expression harden. "My name is Mary. We've been over this. And I will not be rethinking anything. I offered you food earlier, and you declined. You missed your chance, bub."

His lips did this sorta snarly-thing. "I will not tolerate this sort of treatment."

"What? What sort of treatment? Is the fact that I'm not treating you like you're the kali goddamn prince of the planet upsetting you? Because if it is, then grow a pair, because you're not, and I don't ever intend to treat you as such."

His voice had a dangerous hiss to it. _"I am a son of Sparda."_

I shrugged, cocked my head right, hoped I was displaying all of the sarcasm I wanted to. "And I am a daughter of Abraham." Ooh, that sounded rather biblical, didn't it? Not intentional. My dad's name actually is Abraham.

_"You are a worthless human being, inferior to me in every aspect."_

"And yet who is the one asking whom for help? Who is the one who can't move without pain, who cannot currently take care of themself!" My eyes narrowed. "Vergil Aeneid."

His expression, though. I wish I had a camera. It was as though I'd slapped him. All of the pissy little demon in his face went away, and was replaced by this very complete shock. "Who… where did you learn my name?"

I put both hands on my hips, feeling more confident now than before. "Your father. In a dream, just a few minutes ago. Felt bad because his son is an ungrateful swine. Now, then, since I believe this matter is settled, I am going to go back to sleep." I stepped through the doorframe, into my room, had a thought, and stuck my head out to relay it to him. "And I'll wake you up to ask you if you want breakfast. If you do, I suggest you accept, I won't be offering any more food to you until lunch." And with that, I shut my door (a little harder than necessary, I'll admit), flung myself back onto my bed, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I was not disturbed again that night.

.::.

Sorry this took so long. My muse has been absent most of the summer. But I figured this is why I started the one chapter in reserve, right? So, here you guys go.

Special thanks to Chelsea for being cool with Mary accidentally somehow being her. Also for existing.

Thank you to GreenBlack 1991, OrangOTang, Lady Kypria, Lamentations of Nostalgia, koolkatx, darklucifer23, Ashj, GaarasMyBoyzz, and Loves Devil for your reviews!


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